


Son of Ishwari

by spacehopper



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Alternate Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: The Golden Path worships his father. But Ajay knows where the future of Kyrat lies.





	Son of Ishwari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neverminetohold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverminetohold/gifts).



Ajay stayed.

For weeks his passport perched on the nightstand, the eagle emblazoned on the front seeming to stare at him accusingly. His fingers lingered on it, once or twice. Next week, he’d leave. Go back to America, to his friends and his cubicle where a picture of his mother was pinned next to a small charm she’d brought from Kyrat. And his coworkers would ask him what it meant, and he’d make up some story, because he still didn’t know.

“Pagan,” he said at breakfast, the name feeling more familiar every day. “Is there anyone else who knew my mother?” 

“Oh, Ajay.” He leaned forward, chin resting on one hand and leonine smile gracing his lips. “Many people knew your mother. And most of them are terrorists.”

The Golden Path. His stomach roiled at the implication, and what lurked beneath. Pagan was a dictator, and something of a sadist. Capricious, violent, and viciously petty. The old cliche floated across his mind, about the difference between terrorists and freedom fighters, and he tried to shove it away.

“Can’t meet them, then.” He shoveled another bite of pancake into his mouth. Yesterday he’d mentioned missing American breakfast food, and today it’d appeared. That was the perk of having a dictator hovering over your every whim, he guessed. 

“Hmm, certainly not. They’d either worship you, or kill you. Maybe both, indecisive fuckers.” Pagan took a meditative bite of toast. “But there is someone you might meet. A retainer your mother brought with her. Batty old woman, but I’ve kept her comfortable. It’s what your mother would’ve wanted.” His dark eyes were warm as he watched Ajay, waiting for his reaction. He cared what Ajay thought, first because of his mother. Maybe only because of his mother. And yet as the weeks passed, he wondered—

“So can I meet her?” 

“Just call the helicopter when you’re ready,” Pagan said with a theatrical wink. “Certain perks to having an in with the ruler of a small country.”

*

The mountains flew below him, but Ajay’s stomach had been left behind at Pagan’s palace, still stuffed full of breakfast. This woman, this retainer, had been some sort of religious figure. Something like a nun, from what Pagan said. And a loyal servant of the Tarun Matara. She’d defied the edict against his mother when she’d left, and defied it further when she’d remained loyal to Ishwari even as she began to get closer to Pagan. Pagan attributed it to her religious fervor, her slightly blasphemous belief that the Tarun Matara should take a more active role in guiding the country. 

And she’d never trusted Pagan, not really. He said it almost fondly, when Ajay asked. Smart woman. Definitely a good idea to keep her around.

The helicopter landed at a small sanctuary, blades whipping the mountain wildflowers and stirring the still, cool air. No one came out to greet them, and Ajay couldn’t blame them. If you saw a helicopter in Kyrat, the smarter thing to do was run for your life. You might get shot if you did, but if you stayed, you’d definitely get shot. Unless you were Ajay Ghale, it seemed. He tried not to think of what that meant, and stepped onto the ground.

The blades stilled around him, and as they did a girl poked her nose out the door, dark hair sensibly plated. She beckoned to Ajay, and he followed, steps crunching on the gravel of the makeshift landing pad. In the distance there was a rumble almost like thunder, but the skies were clear. He turned towards the noise, catching a glimpse of fire and billowing black smoke. An attack? And wasn’t that the palace, was Pagan—

An insistent tug at his arm, and Ajay looked down to see the girl shaking her head. Right. Nothing he could do anyway, was there? And Pagan would be fine. No matter what the panicked fluttering of his heart tried to say. Pagan would be there when he returned, would wrap an arm around his shoulders with the odd tenderness, so at odds with how he treated everyone else. And he’d insist Ajay have some crab rangoon, and probably do something bizarre and offensive, but it was Pagan, so Ajay would laugh. 

Why had he stayed?

“Come.” Another tug at his arm, and the girl was looking up with glaring green eyes. Ajay did follow this time, through the door and into the cramped, dim room.

“Welcome, son of Ishwari.”

As his eyes adjusted, he made out the shape of an old woman kneeling in front of an altar. She stood, and he could now see she wasn’t as old as he’d thought. His mother’s age, maybe even a little younger. But her hair was stark white. He took the hand she offered, and made a small huff of surprise as she dragged him into her arms.

“It is so good so see you grown, Ajay,” she said. “I’m sure you have many questions. I am Lakshmana.” 

He stiffened at the name, but she didn’t seem offended, instead giving him a warm smile, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling. 

“I’m sure you have many questions. Please, sit and we will talk.”

The afternoon passed in a blur. Lakshmana had been a childhood friend of his mother, almost like a sister. When Ishwari had been chosen as Tarun Matara, Lakshmana had gone with her. And when Ishwari had gone to Pagan, Lakshmana had followed then as well.

“Your father was furious, of course. But I would not budge, and Ishwari insisted it would not hurt her cover. After all, I had always followed her before. And she was a very persuasive woman.” Lakshmana smiled fondly, taking a sip of her tea, still warm from the constant attentions of the girl.

“Why did she love him?” Ajay blurted out. The question had been bothering since he’d come here, was why he hadn’t left. “Not my—not Mohan. Why did she love Pagan?”

The smile fell from Lakshmana’s face, and she set her tea down, folding her hands in her lap. 

“Why are you so sure she did love Pagan? Was she not simply using him for her own ends? He was, after all, far more amenable to her influence than Mohan ever was.” 

Ajay remembered the way his mother had looked, sometimes, staring into the distance, eyes sad and dark. He’d asked her once why she looked like that, too young to know better.

I left someone behind, she’d said. At the time, he’d thought it was his father, though she rarely spoke of him. But now—

“She loved him,” he said. He tried to ignore the low heat, the desperate clenching of his heart as he stumbled over the word love. 

Lakshmana sighed, then reached out across the table to take one of Ajay’s hands. “Pagan Min is not a good man. But love is a strange thing. Ishwari said he was like a tiger, a savage hunter, who would sometimes strike unpredictably, and who could not be controlled. But who could be persuaded. And perhaps that was enough.” 

“The tigers I’ve met haven’t seemed all that persuadable,” Ajay said, thinking back to a rather memorable hunting he’d taken with Pagan. The claw marks scored across his chest would likely never fade, so deep he’d thought he’d die. Another time he should’ve left, should’ve known Kyrat was too dangerous, too wild. But Pagan had rushed towards him, tearing off his suit jacket and staining it with Ajay’s blood, swearing and barking orders at the soldiers to get help. As Ajay faded from consciousness, he’d felt lips press against his forehead, and the pained command that he couldn’t fucking die, not now. 

“They only listen to a chosen few,” Lakshmana said. She stood. The roar of the helicopter’s blades stirred to life. “I believe it is time for you to go.”

“Thank you,” Ajay said. “I think—I think I understand.”

She regarded him in silence as a minute passed, then nodded. 

“Good luck, son of Ishwari.”

*

The palace was on fire when he returned.

Fear leapt in his throat, and he scrambled for his phone, yanking it out of his pocket only to reveal a blank screen. Dead. The pilot had his own phone out, scrolling through the messages and looking up with wide eyes as Ajay grabbed his collar. 

“Where is Pagan?” he said. Hating the urgency in his voice, and hating more that he didn’t know. So stupid, forgetting to charge the phone. What if Pagan had called, what if—

Blood spattered on his face, and Ajay dropped the man in shock. Behind him stood a handsome man in a worn blue jacket, the band around his arm proudly declaring him Golden Path. When he saw Ajay, his eyes narrowed. But he didn’t shoot. 

“Take him.”

“Wait, what are you—” 

A bag thrust over his head cut him off. What was it about Kyrat anyway? He almost asked, but didn’t have a chance as his vision began to swim. Fuck, they’d drugged him. 

He just hoped Pagan was okay.

*

“You should’ve gone home, son of Mohan.”

The handsome man with hard eyes left, and Ajay tensed. Waiting, always waiting. It was worse than constant torture, the excruciating silence, muscles twitching at every stray sound. This time, Pagan would come. A Royal Army battalion would stumble over him. A helicopter would descend from the sky. Or maybe he’d get really lucky, and a tiger would just eat everyone here. 

But it’d been days, and there was nothing but silence, cut with shocks and blows and the sharp edge of a knife. And no one would even know to look. Only Lakshmana had known where he was going.

A branched cracked, and Ajay’s head shot up. This time, maybe this time—the door swung open, another man entered. Older, kinder. Sadder, like he almost regretted the torture. Good to know at least some of the rebels hadn’t totally lost it. He held a water bottle to Ajay’s mouth, and he drunk greedily, lips staining the bottle red. 

“If—” The man glanced at the door nervously, the leaned closer. “If I get you back to him, can you guarantee my safety? I want—I just want to go back to what remains of my family.” 

“Yes,” Ajay said without hesitation. “Tell them you enjoyed the crab rangoon.” Ajay almost laughed at the look the man gave him, but that’d ruin his cover, and potentially Ajay’s only chance to escape. “Pagan will understand.”

The man nodded slowly, then left, empty bottle still clutched in his hand. This time, when he heard the rustle of dry leaves, the rasp of a jacket against cement, he ignored it, letting his head fall against his chest. No rescue, not yet. But finally, something to hold onto.

*

The timing was shit, just like it always seemed to be in Kyrat. The man torturing him today, some fresh faced recruit alight with revolutionary rage, had a knife to his cheek when the first gunshot rang out. His hand slipped, and Ajay hissed as the blade dug deeper than the man had intended. The knife clattered to the floor as he leapt for his gun, shaking hands loading it and flicking off the safety. He barely spared Ajay a glance as he dove into the fray. 

More shots, and the distant hum of a helicopter. Pagan really had spared no expensive. His hands twisted in his bonds, stiff with sweat and blood. No point, he’d tried before. But now it seemed more urgent, somehow. This close to freedom, he couldn’t just sit still. The blood dripped down his cheek, into his mouth, leaving an iron tang on his tongue. The knife, if he could get the knife, tip the chair—

The door burst open behind him, shattered splinters scattering across the room. He jerked his head around. Red, royal army. One of them knelt in from of him, and Ajay shifted uncomfortably. Get up, he still wanted to say. But deference was important, Pagan said. Fear, obedience. He sighed. He’d learned it wasn’t worth fighting about, that this was one concession he could make. So instead he sighed, and said, “Make sure the man who tipped you off is rewarded.”

Another soldier was working on the bonds of his hands, knife parting the fibers, careful to avoid his raw skin. Still Ajay swore as his hands finally came free, the rough fabric sticking to his skin. 

“Water will help that,” the man in front of him said, handing him a canteen. “And King Min has said that he understood your message, and will be with you shortly.”

Ajay poured the water gratefully over his wrists, loosening the cloth enough to pull most of it away. Not perfect, but it’d do for now, and Noore could deal with any complications. The soldier hovered by the door, gun at the ready but relaxed. The shots were dying down, and the helicopter blades had whirred to a stop. Not long now to wait. Ajay eyed the chair he’d been tied to with trepidation, and decided the wall next to him looked better. Leaning heavily against, he closed his eyes and listened for the sound of footsteps. 

When the door banged open, he cracked an eye, but didn’t move. Pagan stood there, an almost comical frown on his face a he scanned the room, before locking eyes with Ajay.

“Ajay, my dear.” He strode across the room, one hand grasping possessively at Ajay’s waist. One of the guards cleared his throat, and Ajay’s cheeks heated. Still not used to the affection, the—whatever this was. Son of Ishwari, they whispered, in more than one way. He closed his eyes as a finger traced the cut on his cheek.

“Tell me, were there any survivors?” Pagan’s voice was pleasant, which meant he was furious. Great. 

“S’not that bad,” Ajay muttered, grabbing onto his jacket and holding him there. “Let’s just go home, okay?”

“Ajay, darling.” Pagan lowered his voice. “You know I can’t do that. These terrorist only understand force.” His other hand cupped the back of Ajay’s neck, fingertips rubbing soothing circles in his skin. “And they need to know the consequences for daring to harm you.”

“It’ll only make them more likely to attack me. Knowing that it’ll get you to react. They’ll realize you—” His lips twist around the “l” but he can’t quite get it out. The whole thing too strange, too like a dream. Or a nightmare. “—care about me.”

“Good,” Pagan said. “That’s exactly what I want.”

And then Ajay was alone again, drifting as Pagan barked orders at his men. Don’t kill any survivors, capture them. Ajay’s heart sunk. But maybe he could still talk Pagan out of it, or get him to lessen the torture, and whatever other retribution he might have in store.

“Call Noore!” Pagan, closer now, the door creaking open again. Ajay stood, swaying on his feet. Taking a step forward, he stumbled, but Pagan caught him. He felt—this wasn’t—his eyes wouldn’t stay open, and his vision swam when he tried. It shouldn’t be like this, the torture hadn’t been that bad, cuts and bruises, nothing that would cause this floating sickness. “Tell her to get to the fucking palace now. I don’t care what she’s doing.”

Pagan was holding him up, stroking his hair. It was hard to remember, sometimes, who Pagan was. What he was. Vicious mercenary turned heartless dictator, but his hands were so gentle, and—

“Please don’t hurt them,” Ajay mumbled as his vision darkened.

“You’re far too much like your mother, in all the worst ways.” 

And then Ajay was slipping, and the shouting seemed distant as he let Pagan carry his own weight, let it all fall away for just one blissful moment. And understood why his mother had to escape, and why she’d wanted to return

*

There was a tiger in his bed, claws curling into his back and tongue rasping wet against his face. Warm, too warm, and heavy, and close. But it was fine, he was fine. As long as the tiger was here, it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. And it’d never hurt Ajay. So he buried his face in it fur and let sleep take him again.

*

Ajay woke with his face buried in a half unbuttoned shirt, and watched the pale chest it revealed rise and fall for a minute. He licked his lips. Swallowed. Tried to clear his throat.

“What happened?” His voice grated, and he felt the body under him stir. 

“Before or after you told me I was a tiger?” Pagan said, cradling Ajay against his chest as he sat up and reached for a glass of water on the night stand. Lakshmana’s words must have gotten to him, twisted his dreams. He held it to Ajay’s lips, and he drank greedily, and just as greedily leaned into Pagan’s warmth. It was weird, cuddling like this. Should be weird. Wasn’t weird at all. 

“I mean, that was, I was drugged, wasn’t I?” 

“Out of your fucking mind.” Pagan sounded almost fond. “And it wasn’t even those damn terrorists. Your little friend had been paid off by Yuma to poison you. And here I thought she would’ve learned after last time.” 

Or the time before that, or the time before that. She’d never liked Ajay. Well, more accurately, hated him. You make him soft, she’d once hissed at him. Like your mother. Pagan had suspected she’d been the one responsible for the tiger, on that near deadly hunting trip. But he’d never been able to prove it, and so Yuma had slithered away. Less dangerous where I can see her anyway, Pagan had said, and she is my sister. But Yuma wasn’t Ajay’s concern. 

“What’d you do with him? The Golden Path member?” 

“The one working for Yuma?” Pagan shifted again, and Ajay went with him, face pressed against Pagan’s neck. “I wanted to kill him, and his family along with him.” Ajay tensed. “But I knew you wouldn’t be happy, and for you, darling, I made an exception.” The press of lips against his temple, and his heart tightened. Like with the tiger, like the tiger— “He’s just imprisoned, and his family is fine.”

“And the Golden Path members you captured?” He couldn’t quite keep the hope out of his voice as he lifted his head to meet Pagan’s eyes.

“Despite the fact they decided to torture you into siding with them, I haven’t done a damn thing. Except to Sabal, of course.” He ran a fond finger over the cut on Ajay’s cheek. “Anything I can give you, my dear boy, I will. But I do still need too run the country.”

Sabal. The handsome leader, who’d called him son of Mohan, then spat in his face. Who’d refused his offers of peace, and held him, because he knew Pagan cared. Knew they were—

Lips brushed against his, almost tentative, as was the tongue swiping across his lips. Ajay kissed back fiercely, pushing Pagan down onto the bed and shifting to he was on top, staring down. Looking at the king at his mercy. 

“Do what you want, darling,” Pagan said. “I’m all yours.”

This was what his mother saw. The future of Kyrat. A dictator at his mercy, hot mouth against his and soft touches along his spine. Love was a strange thing.

And there was no sound of screaming.


End file.
